


Delerium Part two

by Angel-without-wings-sew (John_lockian), John_lockian



Series: Delirium [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Post season 4 - But NOT compliant, Romance, Sick John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 15:00:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_lockian/pseuds/Angel-without-wings-sew, https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_lockian/pseuds/John_lockian
Summary: Following John's delirious confessions of love to Sherlock, more confessions are made, But by who?





	Delerium Part two

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Please note there are references and implied references of drug taking, addiction and suicide.  
> This has not been beta'd I have edited and re edited, but am sure a number of mistakes probably remain, please feel free to point them out so I can edit accordingly. I received so many wonderful comments for the first part of this story, that I am incredibly nervous about a follow up, but here it is anyway. You really DO need to read the first part for this to make sense.
> 
> I have split the rest of the work into two chapters, but both included here. I felt it needed breaking into parts but wasn't sure about the best way to do it.
> 
> I hope you like it.
> 
> I am a new writer, in awe of the talent on here. If anyone ever wants to offer me any constructive criticism or tips on how to improve my writing. I would be more than willing to hear from you.

Chapter 2 _ Time passes

The seconds merged into minutes, minutes into hours which then seemed to become a blurry and fuzzy mass of time. Sherlock had continued his bedside vigil, a ritualistic cycle of, sips, brow mopping and Paracetamol. He had had to tend to john in a more intimate manner, when he realised that there was no way John was going to wake for a pee, and no way he could get him to the toilet. Sherlock had eased a clean sheet and waterproof picnic rug underneath said sheet, to cope with any further accidents, and had washed John tenderly to ensure that he wouldn’t get sore. Sherlock himself took the occasional bathroom break rushed and harried so as not to leave John alone too long. 

As Sherlock sat watching John, his eyes started to falter, his blinks lengthening in time until his eyes would stay closed for several seconds as the fingers of sleep tried to grasp around Sherlock's mind and body. Sherlock however was having none of it. “Bloody Transport”, he murmured, “not this time, it will not let me down this time” 

Each time Johns lips moved, Sherlock eased forward straining to hear what he had to say, hoping that he would catch more of John’s confession, that he would be able to bathe in the warmth of the words John had uttered the day before. But John was resolutely quiet. Well, quiet as in not speaking. His moans and groans, the thrashing about as fever and virus battled within John’s body, the occasional scream that had Sherlock’s heart stuttering in horror as John was gripped by torturous memories of the horrors in his past. But no more romantic confessions. The delirious sounds that were more commensurate to John’s regular nightmares, continued to punctuate the stillness of the bedroom at regular intervals.

Sherlock sighed. He was so tired. It had been three days now since John had succumbed to the fever, and he realised that he hadn’t slept the day before Jon had got sick. Four days was stretching even his capacity for wakefulness, he knew that soon he would start to hallucinate.

Food? John would be upset if he realised Sherlock had not eaten a full meal in days, instead relying on black coffee, lots of sugar and the biscuits that had been purchased by john the week before. Sherlock breathed, mulling over John’s acidic comments about looking after himself. Regardless, he would not allow himself to succumb to the weaknesses of the common man, sleep, food? Why should he reward his body whilst John lay there in pain? He would eat properly and sleep only when John was on the road to recovery. Instead he munched through the biscuits, allowing each gram of sugar to nudge up his resistance to rest.

His mind slipped back once again to the words and actions of ‘that moment’, this is how Sherlock had now labelled it within his mind palace, the moment when he realised John loved him, loved him back! The tenderness in Johns words and actions even in delirium could not have been anything else. But why had John not said more? His mind was obviously working. He had obviously re-lived some of the moments that created sadness and horror, his screams as he tried to escape flying bullets, the breathless sobs as he possibly remembered the man slipping away in his arms, so young, but taken by war regardless. He had thrashed out as though fighting, and at times his face became thunderous, as no doubt he was in the thick of an argument, probably with ‘her’. But no more words of love, of tenderness arose. 

Sherlock's fingers raked through his hair, pulling slightly as though the pain would keep his mind sharp and focused, keep him awake. He took more coffee, gulping the now cold thick gloop as though it was medicine. He grimaced as he forced it down, waiting for the stimulation, the hit that the caffeine would send his way. He groaned as he realised this. “Always an addict, always an addict…. Always needing something to support this frail transport of his”. He sighed as his eyes closed once again. This time, they stayed closed. 

Sherlock dreamed, his mind let loose in sleep, bouncing from one memory to the next. His tired brain tried to forge some semblance of order out of the jumble within. It was as though someone had emptied the drawers of a filing cabinet into a big heap on the carpet, and his brain was trying to reorganise some of those thoughts back into their rightful places. Exhaustion however worked against him, creating some interesting dreams instead.  
At one point, he was running through a field, he could feel the grasses tickling his legs as he ran with careless abandon, dew covering his shoes and ankles, the buzz of the bees and other flying insects, loud in his ears, he was squealing with delight as his big brother Mycroft chased after him in the game of tag. Suddenly his squeals of delight turned to those of dismay, as Mycroft morphed into the man he was today. Striding quickly after him, his long legs more than a match for Sherlock's tiny form. Mycroft stood over him, shaking an umbrella of all things. A big black umbrella on this beautiful day? That look of disappointment in his brother’s eyes, as he told Sherlock that once again he had let him down, let mummy and daddy down. How disappointed they were with him and in his nightmare state, Sherlock was wracked with sorrow that he couldn’t live up to the expectations of those dearest to him.

Abruptly he was no longer a boy, he was a young man, sitting in a laboratory at university. An older man standing over him shouting at him, yelling that Sherlock would never come to anything if he couldn’t except that he still had things to learn. That whilst lesser mortal like he, the lecturer was not perfect, that he still had things to teach him and that his arrogance would be his downfall. Sherlock felt the indignation rise within him, that this man purportedly an expert, had the audacity to dress him down.

His mind switched as he felt once again the desperation gnawing at his very core as he tried to convince himself that his 7% solution was what he wanted not needed, and that he could give it up at any point. He could almost feel the skin hanging from his bones as it had been in the days when he was dependent on the highest amount of cocaine. In this moment of retrospection his brain pulled no punches, showing Sherlock exactly the man he had been back then, dependent, wasted and obnoxious.

The vision changed again. He saw ‘her’, arm draped around John’s shoulder as she whispered something in Johns ear causing the tips of John’s ears to turn pink. Sherlock saw her turn away from John to face him as her face distorted into a mocking leer as she looked him up and down, her face and actions showing him how, she had won John, how she had taken him from Sherlock with marriage. Sweat poured from Sherlock’s brow as he felt the raw devastation, knowing that John, his John would soon be contracted to this woman. 

…. And then he felt delight and wonder as he saw John, looking at him over a glass of Pinot Noir, his eyes, those eyes. Constantly changing shade of colour, but always deep and mysterious. And as their eyes met, John blushed and stammered something about the weather! The bloody weather! Even in this nightmare world, Sherlock almost laughed at John’s attempt at covering his discomfiture. 

The cycle of thoughts and dreams, merging, changing morphing from one to another gambolled rapidly through Sherlock's sleep deprived mind, never staying in one place for long. The cycles seemed to stretch into eternity. There was no sense of time or rationality in this place.

 

 

Chapter 3 - The awakening

John felt like he had been blown apart! Every part of his body hurt, and he didn’t know why. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids seemed weighted by an inextricable force. His throat was raw, he tried to swallow, but he seemed to have no salvia. It was an age, before he managed to crank one eye slightly open. He gazed through a fog, dry eyes distorting his vision. What the hell was going on? Where the hell was he? His tongue snaked out of his mouth onto parched lips, before realising that with no spit, there would be no relief, he needed water. 

Gradually, he pried his other eye open, allowing himself time to focus. Taking deep breaths to counter the pain in his muscles as memories started to return. The Clinic, the flu. Ohhhh God, had he been sick? Had he caught the flu? He had vague recollections of feeling hot, dizzy and so tired. But then, nothing. It was all a blur.  
As he mentally catalogued his surroundings, the feel of the warm bed, the stuffiness of the room, not hospital then, no, he was at home, as his mind sent out fingers grasping for tendrils of information he became aware of another presence in the room. He started, limbs automatically tensing, as he tried to focus his eyes and automatically relaxed as he realised Sherlock was there, right there in a chair by his bed. What was the chair doing there? Then it dawned on John that Sherlock must have been watching over him. As he focused on Sherlock, he realised that his friend was fast asleep. John knew that if Sherlock was sleeping this deeply, by his side, that he must be exhausted. How long had he been ill for? He noticed the glass of water on the bedside table, and with difficulty he gently took it, carefully trying to get it to his lips without spilling the contents over himself and the bed. 

John turned slightly onto his side, wincing with the effort, trying to get comfortable but trying not to disturb his nurse. John smiled at that thought, Sherlock, who wouldn’t even make tea unless pressed to do so, had managed to look after him, well he thought so, he wasn’t sure if he had succumbed to any experimentation whilst being ill, but he felt he could forgive Sherlock for it, if this was the case. 

The rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest was steady and rhythmical, His eyes lightly closed and his mouth slightly opened. He looked, beautiful. Of course, John only allowed himself to think these things when he knew his feelings or actions couldn’t be deduced by his friend. He could never let his feelings show. Sherlock had made it clear at the beginning, that he was not interested in relationships and that work would be his only real partner in life. 

John allowed his eyes to skim over Sherlock's form, as graceful in sleep as it was when in full motion, he was like a gazelle when he ran, all long legs, and huge strides. But now in sleep he was still, his shoulders relaxed and his hands limp in his lap. Head lolled slightly to the side supported by the back of the arm chair, Legs, those long lovely legs, tucked slightly crossed to one side to allow him to be fairly near the bed. Sherlock look ruffled. His curls awry, as though he had done nothing more with them than drag his fingers through them, he had on Pyjamas bottoms and his dressing gown had fallen open slightly to reveal a sliver of beautiful alabaster skin. He looked rumpled and not at all like the smart impeccably turned out man that John generally saw, even when Sherlock was casually dressed. John wondered just how closely Sherlock had stayed during his illness. 

John glanced at the nearby table, smiling to himself when he saw the mostly eaten packets of biscuits. And the now empty Cafetiere . At least Sherlock had eaten and drunk something, if only biscuits. The thought of Sherlock taking care of his transport filled John with a warm feeling. He really hated it when Sherlock neglected his well-being. 

“Oh God, please” 

John’s head snapped toward Sherlock, then realised that Sherlock had entered REM state. Sherlock was fidgeting, his eyes moving rapidly under closed lids. John smiled fondly as he wondered what Sherlock was dreaming about.

“Forgive me, I… sorry… so…. Sorry”

Sherlock’s restlessness increased but John loathed to wake him. It was just a dream, it would pass, and Sherlock obviously needed his sleep.

“Thankyou, Thankyou, you don’t, don’t know......... means”

Sherlock's phrases were intermittently garbled but had peaked John’s interest, cutting through his ever present cloud of exhaustion. When has Sherlock ever said please and thank you?

“Oh, I love you too……. “ 

Johns eyes snapped up to Sherlock's mouth, “what?” 

John was mesmerized as a smile appeared on Sherlock’s face, a smile unlike any John had ever seen there before. Oh, to be a fly on the wall in that dream.

“Ok, ok John, I won’t leave, I promise I won’t ever leave you again” 

John held his breath, then he pinched his hand, hard! Sherlock was dreaming about him? Ooook! Well, oook. John knew in his heart that Sherlock didn’t have any feelings of affection for him. But he took huge comfort from the fact that somewhere in his subconscious, Sherlock at least cared for him, John almost giggled as he wondered what Sherlock was dreaming about, And with those thoughts John succumbed back into the darkness of sleep that shrouded quickly but less heavily than before.

 

Sherlock’s eyes cracked open. “Oh damn”, he must have fallen asleep after all, he thought. He looked over at John ‘still’ sleeping soundly. Sherlock smiled at the dream that had awoken him. He had dreamt that John had declared his love for him, and had begged him to stay with him forever. 

Sherlock rose from the chair feeling lighter than he had in years. He rested his hand on John’s brow and sighed with relief when he realised that Johns temperature felt near normal, John’s breathing now even and less ragged. He went into the bathroom, relieved himself before bringing back a bowl of soapy water to wash John.  
Sherlock dipped the flannel into the soapy water, the aroma of bergamot rising into the air, and he gently washed then patted dry Johns face. He moved the sheet down trying to detach himself as he washed then dried John’s torso, scooting over John’s flaccid penis and washed and dried John’s thighs, knees, ankles, calves then feet. 

Suddenly he became aware that John’s breathing pattern had changed, he had been listening to every breath of John’s for days. Knew his sleep cycle inside out. He drew back and looked up…. into John’s eyes. John’s twinkling eyes! 

“You’re awake? You’re awake!” Sherlock stated the obvious, but could hardly contain his emotional outburst, relief that John was conscious, temporarily cut through his usual reservations.

“Hello Sherlock, yes I’m awake” John’s voice was husky from days of illness. He had in fact woken as the warm flannel had brushed by his cock and had gently ministered his thighs, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. His heart felt as though it would burst as he watched and felt Sherlock’s care to his body. He wondered fleetingly, just how many times Sherlock had washed him.

“Erm. John, erm, John…. I, I was.. er.. just washing you. You have been ill, and barley conscious for days. I’m sorry” Sherlock flustered and embarrassed, didn’t know where to look or the appropriate actions for being caught in flagrante.

“Sherlock, don’t apologise, please. I’m a doctor. I know all about personal care etc. Thank you. How long have I been ill for?”

Sherlock, still a little embarrassed at being caught so lovingly caring for his charge, tried not to look at John. 

“Just over three days John, I was really beginning to worry. But with the hospitals full, well I just did my best. Erm, you have been a good teacher of medicine, the amount of times you have had to patch me up, I have picked up tips on caring.”

A smile played at John’s mouth, Sherlock? Sherlock? Look at me…. Please? 

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat as he looked over at his friend. He was so very happy that he had come through this illness relatively unscathed. 

“Thank you Sherlock. Thank you for being here for me, can you give me a hand to sit up? I’m so sore, fell like I’ve been run over by a tank”

Sherlock, helped John to sit up then automatically turned for the glass of water, offering it to Johns lips, before realising that maybe he didn’t need to do this now John was awake. John didn’t say anything, he sipped the water gratefully and looked at Sherlock his eyes not moving away from him as swilled the water around his mouth, swallowed then licked his lips.

Sherlock swallowed hard, his eyes locked onto John’s eyes, unable to move, he was aware of his own tongue mirroring John’s, slipping out and moistening his lips. He was acutely aware of John noticing this movement then he suddenly became aware of John’s fingers brushing his.

“Sherlock? Are you Ok? You must be shattered”

“John, Oh John, I am so relieved you are ok, I was so scared that you wouldn’t get better.” Sherlock felt overwhelming emotions, after all these days of uncertainty, watching John battling with this virus.

“Oh Sherlock, I’m sorry that you had, all this to put up with, John said as he gestured toward himself” 

“John, John, no” Sherlock was shocked that John thought he had been a burden. “You… I… I was grateful that I could do this for you, John you are my best friend, my only friend” he murmured. 

Sherlock’s eyes looked down at his hand, still held lightly by John. All of John’s words came back to him from ‘that moment’ and he knew he couldn’t do this any longer. He knew that he couldn’t live a lie anymore, the constant skirting around the moments of flirtation, the moments of desire dampened by sudden talk of rotting corpses or worse still, Mycroft latest escapades. He needed to Know how John felt, needed to tell John how he felt.

“John, do you remember anything from when you were ill, anything you talked about?” 

Sherlock, felt so out of his depth as he uttered these words, looking at his hands still in John’s.

“Sherlock, I don’t. Erm, but now I feel like I should? I feel like there is something you are not telling me. The thing is Sherlock, I had some dreams, some odd dreams, but also some…. Some… Jesus, why is this so hard. Sherlock, Have I upset you? Some of the dreams I had, some of the things I thought about…. Oh shit… did I blurt something out that you would rather not have heard?”

“This is ridiculous John” Sherlock looked up into John’s eyes, John’s eyes that were full of, doubt? Fear? “Look John” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Have you, have you got feelings for me?”

John gulped. He knew it was now or never. The thought of losing Sherlock was painful, no, torturous! His head was spinning but as he looked at Sherlock, Sherlock who looked so tired and downtrodden suddenly, he knew he couldn’t lie to him.

“Sherlock, is that what I said? When I was delirious, please tell me what I said?”

Sherlock looked at John, then went to move his hand away from John’s, but John tightened his grip. 

“No Sherlock, tell me, please”!

“Ok, John” Sherlock took a deep breath, “Yes, you told me you loved me, that you wanted me to stay with you” Sherlock felt sick. Waiting for the derisive laugh from John, a laugh which would shatter any hopes he had for a future with him.”

The words hung in the air, all was quiet except for the increased breathing rates of the two as they looked at each other.

“It’s true. I’m Sorry Sherlock. I can’t lie anymore. I will move out, away if it makes things easier for you. Just that, well when you were sleeping earlier, I awoke for a while. You were having a nightmare. You started sleep talking… Sherlock, you told me that you loved me too, what does this mean? Jesus, am I even awake now? Am I hallucinating?”

As Sherlock played through John’s words his eyes snapped to John’s. “You ‘do’ love me? You love me? Like as in… like, you love me?” Sherlock’s usual eloquent language devolved into fractured part sentences as he watched John’s expressions carefully.  
John giggled nervously, “Well yes I suppose all three! I love you Sherlock, I’m in love with you. I can’t lie anymore”

Sherlock stood stock still, he ran from room to room in his mind palace, trying to gather the evidence to support John’s confession, and now he realised that the evidence truly was there, had been all along. 

“Oh, John. I am so stupid. You do love me, and I have made it so difficult for you to tell me that. What sort of a friend have I been?”

“Sherlock, look, please don’t pity me, I’m sure we can work through this. If you want me to stay here, I will try not to put you in any awkward situations.

Sherlock studied John, a look of incredulity on his face. “You think I want you to move out? John? ….”

With no more than a nano-second of hesitation Sherlock leaned in and pressed his lips against John’s. Not moving, he just held them there, not knowing what to do next.

Then there was a moment, the room brightened and as John felt Sherlock’s lips on his he could do nothing but respond. He moved back just slightly to reduce the pressure from Sherlock’s lips, which allowed him the space to create some movement, he allowed his own lips to explore the warm plumpness of Sherlock’s lips, but it wasn’t enough, his tongue snaked out moving delicately against Sherlock's still closed mouth, teasing, encouraging till Sherlock gasped and opened slightly which allowed John a little access. When Sherlock felt John’s tongue enter his moth, the world dissolved around him. He pulled John closer to him, and opened his mouth wider to allow John access, and to allow his tongue to dance with John’s.  
The moment was glorious. It seemed like days had passed when Sherlock stepped back, blushing, all hot and bothered. 

“Oh John, I love you too! When you declared your love for me when you were so sick, I could hardly believe it. I have wanted to kiss you for so long. I just thought, well you were adamant you weren’t gay. “

“And you were adamant you were married to your work, you git, can we just forget the labels?”

“Come here, kiss me again…..”

And Sherlock did.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive feedback always welcome, but be gentle with me.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr as angel-without-wings-sew.


End file.
